


A Gentlemen's Agreement

by GoAskAllyse



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Extremely Dubious Consent, Human Trafficking, Knife Play, M/M, Pretty sure it's not consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shadows doing dirty things, Shaving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoAskAllyse/pseuds/GoAskAllyse
Summary: Set on the backdrop of a harsh winter and injured companions, desperation sets in and Willow does the unthinkable. With Wilson well-and-truly in Maxwell's possession, will the survivors' problems truly stop? Will Maxwell keep his word? Meanwhile, will the scientist lay back and embrace his new role or will he find some way to reclaim his freedom?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I marked this as noncon because I feel like if there is ever any question of whether or not something is dubcon or noncon, just make sure to mark it just in case? More tags will be added as time goes on, if this fic continues.

Willow couldn’t remember the last time a winter had worn so heavily on her. The first winter had been hardest, the one she had spent alone, had been difficult. She remembered her bones aching and her fingers being numb more often than not. It had been easier when she ran into Wigfrid and Wes. They seemed to have some sort of accord and a feeling for one another in the way that one does when they’ve spent entirely too much time together. They read like a bad joke. _So, a Valkyrie and a mime walk into a forest and..._ For a while, the three of them seemed to find a rhythm. Then _he_ showed up.

 

She couldn’t remember how long she had spent with Wilson Higgsbury, enough to know that she enjoyed his company but not long enough to feel a sort of kinship with him that would exclude him from any sort of ill-will. After their camp had been destroyed for the second time in as many weeks by a certain one-eyed deer monster… Well, Willow didn’t think herself a superstitious person, but life became exponentially harder the longer they seemed to spend with scientist. It was time to throw a sacrifice into the proverbial volcano.  The fire was right and properly roaring, and she sat perched by it while watching the other man sleep with his beard and his almost peaceful expression.

 

He was dead to the world, and for good reason.

 

Their food supplies _were_ waning, and Willow had counted on this. If he got hungry enough Wilson surely wouldn’t notice a difference in taste of a few things here and there nor would he attribute his fatigue to anything other than a hard few days and having a full belly for the first time in ages. Willow supposed he was attractive in his own sense with fair skin and warm eyes and a lithe frame. She’d thought about this- how she was going to do it. How it was going to work, _if_ it would work at all. How far did a gentleman’s agreement _really_ go?

 

“Just get it over with,” Willow sighed. With little fanfare, the firestarter got to work. The scientist may have slept like the dead, but the dead have been known to rise here.

 

* * *

 

 

When Wilson awoke the world bled into light, though it did not bleed into definition. It was all blended into a series of sensations instead of visual cues. He felt the warmth of the sun on the side of his otherwise cold face just as he could feel the sensation of cloth bandage wrapped several times over across his eyes. He moved his hands to pull them away only to find that they wouldn’t move. There was something around his wrists- the only thing that kept it from biting too harshly into his flesh was the small protection his gloves provided. Wilson could almost touch the bottoms of his shoes and a feeling of discomfort washed over him; his back was forced into an almost painful arch. He had never considered himself _flexible_ by any means, but it would seem the world around him was willing to prove to the contrary.

 

The ground felt unfamiliar beneath him, his bedroll missing from where it was and, instead, he was met with the sensation of packed snow beneath his body. It _burned_. His mind, typically agile and almost overwhelmingly active, felt slow and disoriented; in some strange twilight moment he wondered if this is what bears felt like after hibernation. Thought gave way to uncertainty and he found himself picking up every strange sensation around him. When you are robbed of your sight, cliché though it was, your other senses really do begin to compensate. It made the cold sharper, made his lungs ache more, and made him more acutely aware of the fact that his shoulders didn’t really care for his positioning.

 

The grass rope coiled around his elbows and then his wrists, forcing each of them to touch and keep his arms out of the way. His bindings then trailed down and attached to the loops around his ankles. If he bent just right, Wilson was reasonably certain he would be able to brush the soles of his shoes; it was not a comforting thought in the very least. His ribs ached and his back was already starting to feel sore from being so rudely contorted in a fashion that any respectable gentleman wouldn’t find himself in. He felt more like livestock at that juncture.

 

No, strike that. Not livestock. An _offering_.

 

Something rustled in the bushes behind him. Wilson tried to scoot himself to hear the direction of the noise, only succeeding in grinding his side into the snow beneath him. His heart was loud in his ears and his throat unmistakably dry. The scientist held his breath. _If I lie still, maybe they won’t hear me?_ A wishful thought. How big was it? How close? How many? All these thoughts flooded in and the pain in his wrists reminded Wilson how well and truly helpless that he was. Finally, he was awarded with some sort of reprieve

 

“Finally, geez do you always sleep this late?” Willow’s voice was her standard level of annoyance mixed with amusement. Wilson could hear the idle flick of her lighter, and the careful sound of her approach.

 

He laughed, the sound tinged with embarrassment and concerned- Wilson Fortunato to Willow’s Montressor. And why wouldn’t he be embarrassed? He was most assuredly compromised. Nonetheless, the scientist put on the false composure necessary to make conversation. “No, Miss Willow, it would appear- well, I suppose I don’t quite know how this appears but I would very much like some assistance in this particular matter?”

“Look Higgsbury,” she sighed. Wilson could hear her toying with her lighter to calm her nerves; the consistent flick of the wheel and clink of its metal, “I would love to help you- I would! Buuuuut we’re having company today and really? I need you out of my hair for a couple hours.”

“Hours?!”

“Come on, you slept most of the night like that, what’s a little more time going to hurt?”

“What do you mean I-I didn’t- I don’t remember-“ he stammered, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

“Ugh, you are such a whiner,” Wilson could practically hear Willow rolling her eyes.

“I can appreciate a good prank as much as the next person, really, I well and truly can, but don’t you believe that this is a little inappropriate? I mean, probably more than a _little_ inappropriate,” he babbled, pace growing faster and more frantic as he talked. Wilson’s nerves were starting to win through his already damaged composure.

 

The Firestarter was silent.

 

“Willow Turner you untie me this insta-ughmph!”

 

Wilson found himself surprised with a wad of what felt like more bandages shoved in his mouth. The was thick and seemed to fill most of the space, effectively muffling the smaller man’s protests. He could hear Willow grumbling under her breath, though he hated to admit that he rather cherished the feeling of warm skin on his frozen cheeks. She not-so-carefully pulled rope across the center of his mouth and over the wad of cloth, “Y’know, Higgsbury,” Willow started, “this is the most I’ve used _anything_ I’ve learned from girl scouts. My troupe leader would pin a medal on you.”

 

She laughed, but the sound was hollow. For her part, Wilson could have counted himself lucky that he had clothing on or else his predicament would have hurt must more than it currently did. He felt the young woman test his bonds across his elbows and at his feet; she briefly checked his hands. His fingers tensed and he tried to pull away from her. Willow nodded. _Good,_ _circulation is still okay._ Her attention drew back to the rope in his mouth. She pulled the ends tight to make certain her handiwork wouldn’t come undone, and she took the tail ends into her hands. Willow forced the rope backwards, forcing the scientist’s head backward, his throat bared like some animal submitting to another in hopes of sparing him its ire. She tied it off at the juncture where his elbows were tied.

 

Willow walked away from camp, and Wilson found himself alone with no one to pay heed to his protests.

 

* * *

 

Time passed. Wilson’s body ached and a familiar cold settled into his frame that had everything to do with his predicament and nothing to do with the fact that it was the dead of winter. His extremities felt numb, but more from the cold than anything. The fire stayed lit behind him, and save for the occasional rustling of someone opening chests, Wilson was painfully aware of how very alone he had been for the time being. Aware of how he was exposed and how anyone could have walked by and raided their camp (as though that was ever a problem) and there was little he could do about it. Aware that if hounds caught his scent they would tear him to pieces without so much as a thought. As time had ticked by a new, more unpleasant scenario ran through his head.

 

An abundance of questions, and no real answers to speak of. They were going to have _company_ tonight; he shuddered to think of what that meant.

 

The scientist could all but taste the change in air pressure around him.

 

“Jeez,” Willow announced, “it took you long enough. I was starting to think I wasted a mandrake doing all of this.”

“Contrary to what you may think, I actually _do_ have things to do that don’t involve tormenting you.”

 

Wilson swallowed. He knew the voice, clear as always. Maxwell was distinct, with his deep and clear tones and the air about him as though he were constantly surveying his domain and finding it wanting. He was a regal despot. The sound the scientist made was one of obvious displeasure and his struggling to release himself renewed with more fervor than he had even when he awoke that morning. Maxwell grinned, all amusement and malice. There was no need to look at him to know that particular fact.

 

“Say pal, you don’t look so good,” he crooned. His glove fingertips tracing a line across his jaw. “I like that he came gift wrapped, but… He looks like a damn mess with that rat on his face, Willow.”

“What do you expect? He always looks like sasquatch in winter,” Willow replied, arms crossed and impatience clear across her features.

Maxwell sighed, shaking his head. Wilson could hear him walk away, just as he could hear a chest opening. “Ungag him,” he told Willow.

“I’m not your maid,” the young woman spat. The king sighed.

“You’re really making me rethink our arrangement, Willow, and I don’t think that’d work out too nice for you since you already gave up your collateral.”

 

The woman moved towards Wilson and undid her handiwork just enough that he could tilt his head up. Wilson immediately spit out his gag, savoring the taste of anything _but_ cloth.

 

“What do you mean _arrangement_? Willow, what did you _do_?!” he snapped, his ire underscored only by his growing fear.

“I’m sorry! I-I” it was the first time Wilson had heard her voice falter, “But I’m sick of _dying_ all the time! I’m sick of freezing to death! I’m sick of _you_ always being-being-“

“Your friend made a deal- I leave her and the rest of your little friends alone the remainder of the winter and she gives me you,” Maxwell explained, “between you and me, pal, I think I got the better end of the deal.”

“Willow this isn’t right,” Wilson told his companion, his voice ached, “please don’t do this.”

“Ever since you came, I… I keep seeing everyone get hurt and-and things _follow_ us. Things I-I’ve never even seen before and it’s all _you!_ ” Her voice broke, “I don’t care how good you are at it, I’m sick of needing you to patch up my friends! I’m sick of **this!** ”

 

Wilson could hear her voice quiver, almost overshadowing the sound of her playing with her lighter. He could almost feel the cold streaks on her face where tears had fallen.

 

“So, I cut out losses. One less problem to worry about, Wilson. I don’t- I can’t keep doing this. You’d do the same.”

“I would never _sell_ one of my friends.”

“Friendship doesn’t keep you alive, Higgsbury,” she said, turning her attention to some spot on the ground, “anyway, Maxwell- you need anything else?”

“Soap and water, then you may go” he told her. Less of a request and more of an expectation. Maxwell grabbed the younger man by the chin, forcing Wilson’s head to face him. After fulfilling her task, the firestarter gathered her things and retreated off into the dawning darkness. It wasn’t long before Wilson swore he could smell burning grass and smoking pinecones. Her hands were washed of the smaller man, and she had left him in the grip of a monster.

 

Maxwell’s full lips turned upward as his cold eyes inspected his recent purchase. “You know, Higgsbury, I’ve always believed that a proper gentleman should be clean shaven… you are a _gentleman_ scientist, aren’t you?”

 

He carefully prepared his tools. Lather, razor. Soap, water. He tried to pull against the other man’s hand on his shoulder, but found his current position made it difficult to really do anything save for being manipulated as another saw fit. Maxwell rolled him onto his back, the full force of his bodyweight on his arms while his legs were folded backwards; the shock alone was enough to force a harsh cry from Wilson’s lips. The scientist turned his head away and used what little leverage he could find to push away. He soon found a blade pressed squarely against his jugular. _A razor?_ He could feel the cold metal against his pulse. “Careful,” Maxwell warned, “I’d hate to slip; I know how well-kept your tools are.”

 

Wilson swallowed, his body frozen as Maxwell started along with his work. He could have been a barber in a past life with the precision with which he wielded the simple blade. His strokes were careful and precise, soon enough leaving Wilson’s cheeks smooth and unadorned. Maxwell pulled the razor away and sat it to the side. Clever creature that he was, the wheels were already turning to plan his escape. Cliché though it was, it was an apt metaphor. He was always moving forward, always tumbling into disaster. Maxwell traced the back of his gloved fingers across his cheek, reveling in how the scientist flinched against his touch.

 

“I refuse to stand for this,” the younger man insisted.

“Don’t worry, doll, I prefer you lying down anyway.”

 

The demon observed the position his captive had been in. Maxwell traced the blade across Wilson’s jawline and traveled downward- not applying enough pressure to break the skin but just enough to let him know that it was a very real possibility. The older man let out a ragged breath, finding himself fully drinking in what was before him for the first time. No matter how lovely he was this way, Maxwell wanted more. He started with the buttons on Wilson’s shirt, running the blade behind the threads securing them one by one; he looked up in time to see Wilson’s face flush and then go pale. The realization of what _precisely_ Maxwell had purchased him for washed over the scientist. Each button fell to the ground, first with the shirt and then the waistcoat until, finally, his chest was exposed. The magician’s eyes met the scientist’s, his free hand running across his chest. Leather-clad fingers trailed across his ribs in almost reverence.

 

“I expected there to be scars,” Maxwell murmured.

“Prefer to see your handiwork?” Wilson’s voice dripped with contempt. It was a good show, but it did little to mask his fear.

“I’m just pleased I’ll have a blank canvas.” The magician ran his gloved hands over the scientist’s sides. Maxwell considered taking his gloves off so he could truly savor the younger man’s textures but thought better of it. There were rewards to be enjoyed later, and for now he could only bring himself for initial observations. Wilson’s breathing was uneasy and shallow; Maxwell could practically taste the little man’s heartbeat. One of his thumbs brushed idly over one of the scientist’s nipples, coaxing a gasp from his lips. The cold air burned his lungs, and every ounce of Wilson’s flesh stung from the harshly dropping temperatures around them. The older man’s touch pulled downward over the younger’s chest, past his ribs down to his stomach and downward still.

 

The king started his work on Wilson’s trousers, unbuttoning with the same deliberate motions as he had with the buttons he’d cut from the scientist’s shirt. They didn’t come down terribly far- being hogtied was fantastic for keeping Wilson still but it certainly wasn’t going much good for getting him undressed. He placed a hand on the scientist’s hip and rolled him over to his side, pressing the younger man’s exposed chest into the snow.

 

“I’m going to regret this,” the king lamented, “if I untie you, are you going to stay still?”

Wilson nodded emphatically, desperate for any sort of reprieve in his aching limbs. It was found soon enough, and while his arms weren’t freed he could stretch back into a more comfortable position once Maxwell had removed the ropes from his ankles. He took the opportunity to try and push himself away from Maxwell. His struggles were more like that of a newborn colt than an experienced survivalist; he rolled to the right in hopes of getting onto his stomach only to find Maxwell stopped him. The magician shoved Wilson onto his back, and his hand stayed splayed across the scientist’s hip; with his body on one side and his arm on the other, the scientist didn’t really have much room to go anywhere.

“Stop!” Wilson all-but-shrieked, kicking his legs in a desperate attempt to escape his captor.  Maxwell replaced the hand on his pet’s hip with the blade he had been holding; he dug the razor into the space just above the other man’s left hip. The demon king didn’t know which he liked more- seeing the blood blossom forth across snowy skin or the cry of pain it pulled from Wilson’s lips.

“What did I say? Don’t. Move,” Maxwell growled.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“You really don’t listen very well, do you?” he traced the blade across his exposed skin, “a proper gentleman should be clean shaven, and _you_ are a _goddamned mess_.”

“What?” the connotation didn’t seem to dawn on the scientist.

 

Maxwell’s hand ran across the front of Wilson’s pants, insistent and applying enough pressure to make his intentions known. The scientist gasped, his body still sore from the awkward position it had been pulled into for so long. Maxwell reveled in the hitches in the man’s breath, in each little look of confusion then awareness that washed across Wilson’s features. He was tempted at that moment to take off his blindfold if only so he could soak in the dawning horror in those lovely brown eyes but thought better of it. It was better to leave Wilson anticipating, and being thoroughly surprised when his estimations were so very frightfully wrong. The magician pulled the man’s trousers and underclothes away from his body, feeling as much resistance as the younger scientist’s body would allow without outright defiance. In the end, he settled for removing all that was unnecessary. Shoes, socks, trousers, smallclothes.

 

“You wear far too many clothes, Higgsbury,” Maxwell grumbled. With his workspace laid clean, he settled into a position between Wilson’s legs and started along to his work. He began the same sorts of preparations he had to remove the smaller man’s beard. Maxwell couldn’t help but lay some teasing touch across Wilson’s nethers. Much to his pleasant surprise, Mr. Higgsbury proved that he was not, in fact, height/weight proportional in the best way possible. As gloved hands teased across his length, Wilson choked on the air in his throat; Maxwell’s own breathing hitched in his throat as he observed the man beneath him. The brown-eyed scientist was flushed and breathing ragged- and _he_ had done it. Maxwell smirked as he carefully removed his gloves before returning his attention back to his captive. Wilson shuddered against his touch, but this time it was a mixture of fear and something else entirely. The taller British man carefully began his work, leaving soapy trails across Wilson’s length and around. A slow drag upward followed by the deliberate pump down- it coaxed a keening whimper from his lips. Wilson’s hips involuntarily moved with the magician’s motion.

 

“Don’t-“ he began to protest.

“Don’t what?” the magician let go of the other man’s member long enough to humor him.

“Don’t _touch_ me, I don’t want this- I-I don’t want _you!_ ” Wilson snapped. Maxwell, for his part, could only offer that condescending smile as he wrapped his hand around the scientist’s length once more. He gave one slow, deliberate pump, coaxing another squeak out of his captive.

“Is that so?” Maxwell quirked a brow.

“Yes! I-I-“ Wilson’s breath trembled, though Maxwell’s movements continued, coaxing Wilson’s cock to attention. He bit his lower lip.

“Yes you _do_ , or yes you _don’t_ ,” he squeezed the man’s hardened flesh, harsh and abrupt. Wilson tried to clamp his legs shut only to be stopped by the body between them. Wilson’s cry had been more from pain than ecstasy, “be specific, Higgsbury.”

“That _hurt!”_

“Everything worthwhile does, pal.”

 

Maxwell continued his movements, listening to the struggling breaths of his captive only to apply unnecessary pressure when it seemed as though Wilson were about to start that incessant chatter again. He stroked the smaller man with the deliberate motions of someone who had absolute control, working him to almost painful attention. He abruptly let go of Wilson, picking up the razor again and starting to work to do precisely what he said he was going to do. Wilson gasped, his body taut.

 

“W-what are-“

“If you’re going to ask stupid questions I’m going to gag you,” Maxwell grumbled.

“No!” Wilson insisted.

“Then shut up and let me work, I suspect you don’t want another nick, especially given the nature of the work.”

 

He went back to work in shaving the smaller man, the razor dragging careful and precise across his skin. Without the use of his sight, Wilson was left with the physical cues he felt. He fixated on the feeling of cold metal on his skin and burning skin against his frozen skin. Maxwell was so _warm_ ; it was like sitting too close to a blazing campfire. His entire body trembling with want and confusion. Wilson was afraid, _God_ he was afraid, but this was more than he could handle; Maxwell’s commanding touch was almost too much for him. How long had it been since he had been touched? Been caressed? How long had it been since-

 

But no, not like this. Not from _Maxwell_ of all people! Not in some sense of captivity. The man had _purchased him_ in exchange for his friends’ safety. She had given him away with only the barest hints of remorse, and now the ruler of their land was manipulating Wilson’s body to suit his own aesthetic! It was beyond degrading, and Maxwell- damned demon that he was- ate every second of it. Wilson wasn’t dense, he knew good and well that Maxwell enjoyed this. Each purposeful drag of the razor, each moment where his gloved fingers adjusted and clinically manipulated him enforcing the gravity of the situation. Wilson was no more than a _toy_ to Maxwell.

 

And he did, he toyed with him long enough to keep him on edge. A few passes of the razor and a teasing touch across his cock or across his balls or fondling as he deigned to see fit. And Wilson’s mind tried to resist the sensation as long as he could but being blindfolded did wonders on the imagination. All he could focus on was the sensations around him. His own harsh breathing rang in his ears, and just as he could feel himself starting to give way to pleasure and fade out-

 

_(He imagined it was someone else- someone with soft lips and warm hands, who didn’t speak a goddamned word, but he sighed like music and never once rolled his eyes while Wilson pointed out constellations or rambled about butterflies or constant functions or whatever else fascinated him at the time. The scientist tried to make this feel like it was with someone else; to say he tried to imagine it was with anyone else was a lie. Wilson wanted it to be Wes; he could forgive any indignity were it for the mime. But he knew Wes would never…)_

 

-  only to be snapped back to a harsh reality of pain and degradation. Maxwell offered enough stimulation to keep Wilson aware of his predicament. Just enough to keep him aware of who was, in fact, in control. He could tell when Wilson’s mind wandered; the magician wanted him _present_ for all of this. Soon enough, the task was complete, and the scientist never felt more exposed.

 

“There,” Maxwell said, admiring his handiwork. He drew the back of the razor, cold and unforgiving, across Wilson’s newly shaven skin, “you’re damn near presentable now.”

“This is temporary,” Wilson warned him, “I-I’m not going-you can’t- I’m not going to let you just _have_ me, Maxwell! Do you-”

The magician slapped the smaller man across the face, affixing him with a harsh glare, “it’s going to be an uphill battle to teach you respect, isn’t it? Don’t be so _informal,_ doll.”

“Go rot in whichever hole you crawled out of,” the scientist spat. His new owner sighed, grabbing his pet by the lapels and pulling them both into a standing position.

 

Maxwell sighed, always with a flair for performance and drama. They were set in the silence of that moment, and the quiet of the air left Wilson’s vivid imagination to fill in the worst. The pressure in the air changed and the already cold winter atmosphere plummeted. Without the benefit of being able to tell what was coming, he couldn’t adequately prepare for what was coming.

 

“I really didn’t want to do this,” the king sighed, pressing the razor again to Wilson’s throat, “open.”

Kept his mouth clamped shut. The razor pressed harder into his skin, the beginnings of a cut forming just before a well-and-truly lethal place. Maxwell quirked a brow, almost amused by the way the scientist stood perfectly still and struggled not to cry out.

 

“I could let you die all day, Higgsbury, and it would be no real problem for me, but I suspect you like being alive, so _open_.” Seconds ticked on and the razor slowly trailed closer to Wilson’s jugular. Maxwell had relieved the pressure to keep from cutting him, but all it would take was just a little flick of his wrist and-

 

Reluctant, Wilson opened his mouth only for the man to push something behind his teeth. It felt like a ball, but it was large and fit snugly into his mouth; the magician buckled it behind his head as as tightly as the scientist’s body would allow. Maxwell sighed, his naked fingers tracing along Wilson’s jaw and over his neck. His fingertips played across the blood there, tracing a small stripe down over the younger man’s pale skin. “One more thing,” he said.

 

The scientist felt Maxwell pull away from him, only for the lack of touch to be brief. He was greeted again by the feeling of leather, but it was accompanied by something different. There was something colder than winter across his throat, and buckled snug against his neck. Wilson’s cheeks were flushed, a collar- like a right and proper pet.

 

“There,” Maxwell almost sounded proud, “now let’s get a move on, pal. Contrary to what you may think, I _do_ have other things to do today.”

 

The collar felt strange around his neck, and something whispered some forgotten language in his ears. Soon enough he started to feel drowsy. His world went black.

 

They were gone just as the sun disappeared from the sky.

 


	2. The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson is acquainted with his new prison and Maxwell finds the time to explain the rules of the scientist's new lot in life. The younger man seems to have more spirit than the king had anticipated- is Wilson's defiance worth the trouble it will no doubt bring him?

It would have been an intimate place had he been able to genuinely enjoy the scenery. The room was bathed in the warm glow of a fireplace and the scent of burning cedar. It was more like a parlor for entertaining guests, like the kind of study Wilson only dreamed of having instead of working out of his attic. The furniture was as opulent as it was solid with a chair in the corner that almost reminded him of the one in his own home. A high-backed Queen Anne chair that seemed to dwarf him in comparison if only because it wasn’t built for _him_. The color was the same- a vibrant pigeon’s blood ruby made darker by the dim lighting. He didn’t care much for the other colors and textures and sights of the room, only seeking out the comfort of actual furniture. His mind went back to the same thoughts that plagued him since arriving in the Constant and finding a few creature comforts- _how long had it been?_

 

 A glint of light caught the corner of his eye- there was a mirror and a wardrobe tucked easily away. It was the mirror that caught his attention. The best they usually had around camp was shined gold across a flat surface. Wilson still hadn’t managed to figure out how to make mirrors, though he had been getting a little closer with the alchemy engine at his last camp.

 

He inspected his reflection, careful and curious. It was real, it had been real though he had wanted to think the contrary. Aside from his gloves, the scientist wasn’t wearing a single article of clothing that might help to keep him warm. His skin was smooth, only marred by the bruising on one hip and the bandages on the other. He tipped his chin up to see where he remembered the razor pushing against his throat, only to be reminded of something: his collar. Wilson narrowed his eyes and immediately reached up to feel around the outside. He couldn’t feel anything, though he could have sworn that he heard it buckle earlier. It was as though the vital portions of what would keep it around his throat had disappeared entirely. As he felt around, his fingertips tingled. The new touch reminded him of how cold it was against his flesh.

 

The scientist tipped his head to the side, managing to fit a finger around the inside though no more. It wasn’t choking him, but it certainly wasn’t going anywhere. _There must be a locking mechanism, maybe Maxwell flipped it to the inside while I was out?_ The thought seemed logical enough; even when faced with a terribly unreal situation he looked for a thread of logic and reason. It did little to save him here.

 

The door clicked open behind him and the smell of cigar smoke and leather greeted him. Wilson didn’t bother to turn around and look, instead spying his captor in the mirror behind him. Maxwell didn’t acknowledge the scientist when he came in, instead locking the door behind him with a set of heavy brass keys that Wilson couldn’t quite make out. Four or five on the ring, the ring attached to a chain that led outward. It was hidden away like a pocket watch, or how any other jailer would store their keys should their prison be a comfortable one. One key was his, but where did the other keys lead to? Wilson finally turned.

 

“I was able to count to three hundred fifteen before you even acknowledged me,” Maxwell said, and though his tone was lazy there was still the feeling that it was held on a spring coiled too-tight, “honestly, kid, I’m hurt. You call yourself a gentleman and _yet_ you don’t even have the basics. I suppose we’ll have to start at the beginning.”

“Oh, so this is all a giant exercise in teaching me about the value of propriety?” Wilson glowered.

“Something like that.”

“And what _precisely_ have I done that has been so inappropriate that you felt the need to kidnap me _twice_ in order to make your point?” he folded his arms across his chest and his mouth set into a sharp line.

“Twice?”

“Yes! Once from my home and once _again_ from that clearing where… Willow…”

“-sold you to me.”

“…”

 

Maxwell took a seat in the chair by the fire. Having the man look at him from his perch felt almost as though he were being observed from a throne- because of _course_ Maxwell would take his seat upon a throne to survey the peasant before him. It made Wilson aware of just how _exposed_ he was, and thus had the quandary of what he should do in this regard. To cover himself would give way to reinforcing how off-balance he was but to stay exposed seemed wanton and vulgar. Modesty gave out and, instead, Wilson held his hands in front of himself in hopes to shielding the king’s attention from his more sensitive areas.

 

“Doesn’t sit well, does it pal? That they’d give you up so easily? It’s a wonder they hadn’t done it ages ago.”

“You pushed Willow until she couldn’t take it anymore,” Wilson spat, “you torture people until you get what you want out of them.”

“Aren’t you lucky, then?” Maxwell smirked, “I happen to want a great deal out of you Higgsbury. Now come here, let’s have a look at you.”

The scientist took a step away from the seated man, choosing to turn his back on him and provide himself some modicum of privacy. As he stepped away from the fireplace and the man seated beside it, he could hear a familiar hiss from the shadows. The air rattled around him and his stomach dropped; the scientist couldn’t bring himself to retreat to the darkest corners of the room. The fear of darkness was more than a primal one in this world but rather a true threat. Venturing too far out, even indoors it would seem, could have truly dire consequences.

 

His display of defiance was short-lived. Something tugged roughly at his neck, and Wilson’s hands immediately went to his collar in hopes of keeping it from choking him. The sensation was sharp, and so damnably cold on his exposed skin and sent him sprawling backwards to the floor. The contact was hard enough with the hard wood that it made his tailbone hurt. The scientist scrambled to his feet only to be pulled down again; it was twice before he stayed on his knees facing the king on his throne.

 

“Maxwell, what-”

 

There was no warning for Maxwell’s next action, though it was immediate. With the scientist easily in arm’s reach he lifted his right hand, pulling far across one side of his body and backhanded the smaller man hard enough that he nearly lost his balance. In fact, the collar seemed to be the only thing keeping the scientist from toppling over. The action left the slick taste of iron on Wilson’s tongue. His hands went immediately to cup his cheek, only to have them batted away by the same cold feeling that had was wrapped around his throat. Wilson yanked his arm away, his breathing starting to grow rapid and uneven. No matter how he struggled, the shadows still gripped and pawed at his skin. Still yanked and manipulated him as they saw fit until the shadowy hands had successfully pinned Wilson’s arms behind his back again, tendrils of shadow snaking up his gloved arms.

 

“Stop-stop-stopstopstop- Maxwell stop!” his collar tightened and air soon became a commodity.

“I think it’s time that we established the rules,” the magician replied. His voice impassioned, delighted even. “Do you think you can listen quietly?”

Wilson nodded emphatically, desperate to get oxygen back into his lungs before the room started to fade. The collar gained some slack, but only enough to give Wilson a chance to breathe again, and none too easily at that.

“ _Lovely_ , now on to business. First?” Maxwell gripped the scientist’s jaw, turning the smaller man’s head to face him, “I am not _Maxwell_ to you. I am your king, I am your god, I am your _world_ \- do you understand that? Nod yes or no.”

The captive scientist stayed perfectly still and glowered at the magician.

“Yes-” Maxwell yanked Wilson’s head down, then up, then down again, “-or no-“ the up-and-down was replaced with a vigorous side to side motion. “Now, look at me and try again.”

Wilson swallowed and the seconds ticked on before he finally nodded.

“Good boy.”

 

The man’s grip loosened on his pet’s jaw, instead moving to cradle the place where he had slapped him earlier. Maxwell traced his thumb across Wilson’s lips and over the finer details of his mouth, the sharper pieces of his features softened by his vulnerable position. The stark sensory details washed over the magician. The crackle of cedar wood on the fire, the warmth of his captive’s skin, the trembling breath the smaller man drew into his lungs in that tender moment that had punctuated what would otherwise be considered a terrible situation. It was promising.

 

A shadowy hand snaked across the floor, and slowly began to trail its way from its position on the floor to crawling slowly up Wilson’s left leg. The motion was deliberate, a slow and teasing stroke across his inner thighs though the sensation was _wrong_. Wrong enough that it made the younger man visibly shudder under its clawed caress; the scientist tried to shut his legs in hopes of denying the shadows access to his body only to find Maxwell’s foot placed firmly at the inside of one of his legs.

 

“Keep them open,” the king insisted.

“I don’t-”

“Second rule,” he continued, his speech punctuated by the light drag of the shadow hands talons against Wilson’s skin. The smaller man bit his lip to stave off a whimper, “your wants, your desires, your hang ups and insecurities mean nothing. Your pleasure exists for my amusement, and your pain exists for my gratification. Whether you eat, sleep, or even breathe is my decision. But whether I am a benevolent tyrant or a vengeful god is _entirely_ dependent on your actions- whether or not you _earn_ my grace. I have no qualms reminding you that disobedience will not be tolerated.”

 

The hand continued its attentions on his skin. The drag of its claws on his body kept Wilson acutely aware of the fact that what was touching him was not, and had never been, human. Claws were accompanied by deft and agile tendrils, bleeding down from where they had wrapped around his arms and down over the curves of his back side. It was a teasing touch, featherlight but wretched in its own right. The shadowy hand had traveled from Wilsons’ thighs to his length and trailed a finger across the tip. Wilson gasped, pulling his hips away from the touch only to find the shadows at his back pushing him forward into the grasp of another.

 

Maxwell gestured something dismissive, and the hand around Wilson’s member started its deliberate assault. The shadows felt slick and cold against his flesh- they wrapped around almost uncomfortably tight and present. It wasn’t like something gripping him so much as engulfing him, devouring him and only holding back because their ruler insisted that he was not theirs to consume. The motions were measured and calculated with the precision Wilson had come to expect from Maxwell; every move was thought through three steps in advance. Forever the chess player. _My king,_ Wilson all but spat in his head. The resentment in his thoughts were lost in favor of the burning humiliation on his face and the reluctant pleasure he was feeling.

 

The shadow hand forced the smaller man’s length to an almost uncomfortable hardness- made more uncomfortable by both the intensity of his erection and the circumstances which they came about. Wilson looked away, shutting his eyes tightly.

 

“Make it stop,” he choked out, his voice refusing to cooperate. Refusing to relay his own mortified frustration. “No, no no, please-please make it stop I-“

“Ohhh, what’s the matter, doll? I thought you liked this,” Maxwell crooned. The shadow hand continued its work, squeezing more tightly against Wilson’s flesh while shadowy tendrils slowly started to tip him forward, spread his cheeks and-

“No!” the scientist yelped, his whole body seizing up when he felt something slippery flick across his entrance. Another hand, surely, but not as likely to claw him up from the inside.

“You like it when Wes does it.”

 

Wilson’s stomach dropped, his eyes wide and locked on Maxwell’s.

 

“Do you think I haven’t watched before?” his voice could not begin to make the steel in his eyes. The magician smirked, “that I haven’t seen him touch you? That I haven’t been there when you lean into him when you’re afraid and how your hands tremble when you bandage him up?” That smirk grew edged, and though he wore the skin of a man Wilson was certain he was in the room with a true monster, “do you think that I haven’t relished every time he has to crawl back to you? Do you know what Wes sounds like when he screams?.. of course you don’t. One of my fondest pleasures, almost as much fun as you will be.”

 

Wilson renewed his efforts to free himself and escape the touch of the shadows wrapped around him. There was nowhere that he could go, nowhere that he could escape to. He was _trapped_ , and even though the fact radiated in his mind the smaller man refused to believe that this was the case. Refused to believe that his situation as hopeless even as the shadows pressed into his body. Wilson shut his eyes tightly and let out a ragged cry. The movements of both sets of shadowy appendages worked against him. The hand on his length rubbed against the tip, drawing out stifled cries of pleasure.

 

He hated this, he hated how they knew his body, how they knew where to touch and how wrong it felt. He hated how detached it was, how inhuman and _inhumane_ the entirety of it was. Wilson pulled against his bonds but found he couldn’t help but rock his hips against the motion of the intruders. He felt the tendril in his ass reach a sensitive spot, rubbing a steady rhythm of strokes against his prostate. The scientist yelped, but soon the motion coaxed involuntary moans from his throat. Wilson was torn between riding the waves of pleasure coursing through his body and wanting to throw up from the sheer intensity of his situation.

 

“Last rule,” Maxwell announced. He caressed Wilson’s cheek before gripping his chin again. He forced the man’s up and fixed his gaze on the captive scientist, his voice promising nothing but agony for disobedience, “you are to never say his name again. Ever.”

 

The shadows picked up their pace, the intruder in Wilson’s ass starting to thrust into his body. The younger man could feel himself approaching the edge of ecstatic release, and it took everything in his power to try and keep from falling over. He couldn’t allow Maxwell the satisfaction of reaching orgasm, especially since it was his abuse that was bringing him there. It wasn’t something he wanted, it wasn’t something he sought out, and the only thing that kept him from crumpling under the gripping and overwhelming sensation was sheer spite. His will would likely give soon enough; the body could only stand so much.

 

“You. Are. **Mine**.”

“Go to Hell, Maxwell,” Wilson spat.

 

The magician growled, the sound truly befitting of everything the scientist had said about him. He wiped the saliva from his cheek with a gloved hand, turning his attention to his defiant new acquisition. The man stood, and it was the first time that Wilson had truly realized that Maxwell towered over him, having nearly a foot on the smaller man in height and with the palpable aura of power and control. The room darkened with his mere presence, and the king of the realm- with his smart suit and his carefully groomed demeanor- only regarded the scientist with a smile. The shadows dropped Wilson and withdrew immediately, leaving the smaller man empty and exposed; it should have been a blessing.

 

“You’re already there, Higgsbury.”

 

He realized too late that he had done exactly what Maxwell had wanted; the scientist had given him an excuse for what was to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there are any grammatical or spelling errors! Thanks for sticking around, I look forward to writing more


	3. Exquisite; Pathetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell takes his time to assert his control over his captive while Wilson pushes against his fate. Will he break, or will the scientist remain strong in the face of inevitability?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, doves, this chapter has non-consensual sex. Like, about three thousand words worth of non-consensual sex. I know it's in the tags, but I needed to reinforce this so you know.

Space was a commodity. The corners of the room were not places that he could reach and there was only so far that Wilson could retreat to and none of them would provide much respite. He had to think. There were choices to be made and boundaries to cross and the whole time every inch of him was protesting-

 

“If you so much as _touch_ me again-”

 

Maxwell scowled and yanked his hand backwards, grasping some unseen line and pulling back on the leash. Not caught off-guard, he found that Wilson was an obstinate target. In the recesses of the magician’s mind some part of him felt a degree of delight; _this_ was what he had wanted. This was what he had craved for so long- that radiant scientist with the fire in him to fight and protest and push back. Wilson was, in that moment, every cliché about the fighting spirit and the nature of indominable human will- complete with empty threats and feeble attempts at self-determination. It was the _fight_ that he wanted; it was the fight that he longed for.

 

What he did not long for, however, was the sudden loss of breath and pain that came when someone punches you in the gut whilst attempting to escape. Wilson took a hard swing, stepping in close enough that he could do so easily. It was the sense that he had won that knocked Maxwell off-balance more than the blow. The scientist knew he had to get out of there. He needed to get those keys to the door so he could make a run for it. Decency and clothing be damned, he was going to get out of here one way or another! Maxwell wasn’t dealing with a gentleman scientist; he was dealing with a feral cat backed into a corner.

 

Wilson stayed close enough to try and get at where he had _sworn_ he’d seen Maxwell stash the keys to the door. Once he was out he could- he could-

 

_Where **are** they?!_

 

He didn’t have enough time to really try and find the keys before the taller man grasped his wrist. Their eyes locked; the magician was all but seething and the scientist’s defiance was suddenly tarnished by the realization that he had _nothing_ in his arsenal that would even the playing field. The younger man tried to yank himself away and, though they were evenly matched Wilson’s shock had rattled his confidence. He placed his free hand on Maxwell’s chest and shoved as hard as he could, finding that the man’s grasp on his slender wrist had not abated. The older magician stepped forward to keep in proximity to get behind his captive; Maxwell wrenched Wilson’s arm behind his body and upward as though he were trying to make his wrist meet his shoulder blades.

 

The scientist shrieked; if his captor continued to tug his arm upward Wilson was certain something in his arm would pop out of place. Still, he continued with that harsh pressure- it was enough to make Wilson’s knees buckle under him. The older man followed with him and refused to relinquish his grip on the younger. With both men on their knees it was easy enough for Maxwell to pull close enough that their bodies were touching. His free arm soon wrapped around Wilson’s body and his hand clasped around his throat.

 

“We are going to go over the rules again today,” he punctuated what he said with a sickeningly gentle kiss on Wilson’s neck, just above where the collar rested. His lips trailed downward.

“I don’t-“

“-and we aren’t stopping until I am certain you understand them.”

“Maxwell, _please_ -“ his protest was cut short by the sudden feeling of Maxwell’s teeth digging into the sensitive spot where his neck and his shoulder met. Wilson clamped his mouth shut and covered his mouth in hopes of stifling the cry. He couldn’t give the demon king the satisfaction of knowing how much that _hurt_.

“Starting with the first,” the older man purred, “because you clearly weren’t paying attention.”

 

The entirety of it all kept Wilson painfully present through the entirety of what was happening around him. He noticed every detail of the room. The flickering light of the fireplace, the shadows that licked at the edges of his periphery- waiting for instruction no doubt, and the warm breath of his captor just above his ear. The magician straightened his posture and pulled the scientist close to his chest. The sensation of Maxwell’s breath on Wilson’s skin was replaced by the unrelenting heat of his chest and the rather _insistent_ reminder of his own enjoyment of the scientist’s plight. A rather impressive reminder at that- one that had Wilson dreading what was to come even more than he already did.

 

Maxwell pulled Wilson’s arm closer to his shoulder blades, snapping him out of whatever thought he had and reminding the scientist of the harsh reality before him. He was _stuck_.  The magician’s hand trailed down from his throat downward, starting its migration down his exposed chest and over his abdomen and lower still until it finally reached Wilson’s cock. “How this goes is entirely dependent on you and let me say pal- it doesn’t look so good right now.”

“First rule,” Wilson repeated. His body froze; his mind went blank. All he could focus on was the fact that his shoulder ached and the demon behind him had his hand teasing itself across his length. He shoved his hips backward away from the sensation, instead choosing to press himself against his captor’s body.

“Get on with it,” the demon king tensed his grip on Wilson’s length, coaxing a pained yelp out of his captive.

“I’m not to address-“ Wilson’s breath hitched, bile rising in the back of his throat “-you aren’t Maxwell. You are my king, my god, and my world.”

“Good,” Maxwell praised. To punctuate his point, the man continued his less than tender attention to Wilson’s member. He moved his hand down in a swift and forceful motion before slowly dragging upward again- he _could_ have been more gentle. Wilson knew it from earlier, how carefully Maxwell had manipulated and tugged at his flesh and coaxed him to attention whether the scientist wanted it or not. Even in his praise, Maxwell did not intend for his actions to be more than a disciplinary action. “Now, how do you address your master, Higgsbury?”

 

The demon king released Wilson’s arm in favor of holding the smaller man close to his chest. The change in positioning offered him the opportunity to try and push away, to try and escape and get another attempt at getting the keys or retreating into the darkness or-

 

But Wilson didn’t _do_ anything. He couldn’t do anything. At that moment he felt his stomach drop and his arms tremble as he laid a feeble hand against Maxwell’s arm to push him away. His mind was reeling while his eyes dared to drift closed and his body made him aware of the sensations he was feeling. Reason said he should run. Reason insisted that he should either be fighting or running instead of _freezing_ there, because conventional wisdom doesn’t have an accurate view of what the body does when faced with an unwinnable situation. Until this point there were few challenges in the constant that he couldn’t contend with that, in a worst-case scenario, wouldn’t lead to his demise.

 

This was different. Maxwell wouldn’t _dare_ let him die; that would spoil the fun.

 

“Please, _sir_ , I don’t-” the younger man opened his mouth to plead more before finding a set of leather-clad fingers pressing past his lips. Maxwell pressed his middle and ring fingers down, holding his tongue in place while his thumb pressed harshly against the underside of his chin. He forced Wilson’s mouth to stay open. The hand on his cock disappeared, though the rather insistent erection pressing against the scientist’s back was not forgotten. If anything, it had become more forceful. More impatient.

“Second rule: your wants mean _nothing_ ,” the statement was punctuated by the careful unbuttoning of buttons and the rustle of fabric. Each slip of metal against fabric gave way to the ever-pervasive sense of fear that gripped the younger man, “now, _suck_.”

 

Maxwell forced his fingers to the back of Wilson’s throat, causing the smaller man to gag on them. His eyes watered at the sudden sensation of the intrusion and he pulled his head back as best he could to alleviate the discomfort. Some part of Wilson was willing to acquiesce, to follow his orders while his mind wandered to anywhere other than **here.** With that little bit of reprieve, he gave way to merely doing rather than _being_. His lips closed around the other man’s fingers, pulling back for a moment and suckling on the unwelcomed interlopers. Wilson’s tongue lapped in gentle strokes against them and circled the other man’s leatherclad digits; he was skillful. Delicate, but skillful none the less.

 

The magician’s breath came through in a shuddering sigh, his own motion against Wilson’s shaft mirrored the patterns the smaller man was working on his fingers. “Good boy,” Maxwell purred, “who knew I’d bought such a diligent little whore.” Wilson closed his eyes tighter while his shoulders tensed. His hips rocked with the movement involuntarily; the body will react to stimuli. The body will do as it pleases even if one’s brain would rather be anywhere but. The scientist chose to focus on stimuli or any number of details that allowed him to pretend this wasn’t really happening.

 

Maxwell pulled his fingers from Wilson’s mouth, that suckling sound escaping into the air and leaving a trail of saliva from the magician to the scientist. He moved his hand downward and around to the younger man’s lower entrance; he pushed into Wilson’s body with little care for what may be too fast. Though the shadows had warmed him up earlier his body was too tense to accept such a sudden intrusion. He grit his teeth but was unable to stifle the whimper that came from his throat. The demon king continued his assault, pushing inward with little care for how his captive felt at that juncture; he let out a shuddering breath at the mere thought of what was to come.

 

“Stop it! Don’t-don’t-“ Wilson wasn’t sure what made him felt worse- the rough exploration of his most sensitive areas or the fact that he was all but pleading for it to stop.

“You know pal, I don’t think you _get it_ ,” the magician pulled his hands away and shoved the other man forward. Wilson topped to the ground, “I. Own. You.”

 

The scientist tried to scramble towards the fire before a hand- cold and clawed- gripped his injured hip and pulled him onto his back. His retreating attempts continued; somehow the younger man had been blessed with a sense of renewed vigor and a heated desire to do everything he could to avoid his fate, but it was useless. Wilson **knew** it was useless; there was the constant conflict of accepting the inevitable and fighting against it for his own sake. So he could tell himself that he fought back when it was all done to save his pride, but his body betrayed him. He wouldn’t feel so _close_ if he didn’t want it, would he?

 

Being cognizant of the fact that the body is merely a machine programmed to respond to stimuli and rationalizing that it isn’t your fault are two different things. Things Wilson Higgsbury could not process at that juncture. His body and his mind craved two very different kinds of release.

 

Something gripped one wrist and then the other. The shadows would do as they pleased, and harsh taloned fingers dug into his skin. They pinned him on his back, and all he could do was stare up at Maxwell in quiet horror. The king of their realm- _Wilson’s_ king- stared down at the smaller man smug and erect. He hoisted the man’s hips in the air and gripped hard enough that no doubt the bruising would be worse tomorrow. Wilson could feel his wound from earlier reopening from all its rough treatment; it was enough to make him cry out in pain.

 

“Sir, _please_ don’t do this to me,” he pleaded.

“We haven’t even started yet,” the taller man smiled. He positioned the tip of his length against Wilson’s entrance; his smile was too edged. Too feral for a man so refined. His gaze was cold.

“Maxwell? Maxwell _please_ ,” before he could try to appeal to whatever humanity the other man had, Wilson was reminded of his position by the magician slamming his cock into the man’s bruised, aching body hard enough that he would have jolted backwards were it not for Maxwell’s grasp on his hips.

“And you’ve already forgotten the rules, I’m disappointed in you Higgsbury.”

 

The first stroke had been hard, and the second hadn’t been much better. There they were, the taller man pounding hard into the scientist’s ass and all he could do was struggle in vain against his restraints. He tried to close his thighs but to no avail, Wilson’s heart was pounding hard; he looked away and closed his eyes tight. His breathing was sharp and his whimpers turned quickly into full blown cries of pain.

 

His assault was relentless, and while all Wilson could hope for was release Maxwell was seeking a different sort of satisfaction. This was what he had wanted, a mere taste of what was to come with the scientist tensed and tight around his cock while those lovely lips were parted and purring out those lovely sounds of agony. Just the thought of that exquisite suffering was enough to make him twitch. A moan fell from his lips and his self-satisfied smile never truly left his lips. The man thrust forward again, one hand wrapping around Wilson’s dick as he began timing his own thrusts with his strokes.

 

“Look at me,” he commanded, “I want to see those eyes while I fuck you raw.”

Wilson shook his head no, eyes still firmly shut. He could feel his collar tightening around his neck, and for a second it was only his defiance that kept him from looking over. The young man started to feel lightheaded until finally his obstinance waned and he turned his head to face Maxwell. Those lovely rust-colored eyes were filled with tears for reasons more than his struggle for breath.

 

The scientist’s cock twitched at the sudden lack of air; coupled with the rough and harsh fucking he was receiving and the equally harsh stroking of his member he could feel himself starting to feel closer to that edge of ecstasy. His mind reeled and there was an overwhelming sense of humiliation over him. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t right, he didn’t want this! He didn’t want Maxwell fucking him, he didn’t want the man’s wretched hands on his body much less coaxing him to orgasm. But that was where he was, continually forced to the edge without release twice over the span of an evening, and it was beginning to be too much.

 

_Please_ , he mouthed. The world was going black around the edges and ever ounce of his body was wracked by fear. Wilson feebly fought against his bonds and Maxwell groaned, soon picking up his already relentless pace to continue his claiming of the younger man’s body. A sheen of sweat graced his brow while his captive was all but drenched. There were parts of him that empathized with the young scientist’s plight- but that part was strapped to a throne hidden away, pleading for someone to stop, insisting that he didn’t want this, that he longed for his captive but not like this, not with him writhing beneath the approximation of his own form being so utterly violated.

 

“Pathetic,” Maxwell spat. (but who was he speaking to- the man on the throne or the man beneath him?)

 

Wilson’s struggles became weaker, until finally there was reprieve and a rush of air hit his lungs. He choked on his own breath, coughing and shivering. The ruthless assault continued, and though his body was on fire and his heart was beating out of his chest the scientist could barely coax more than hopeless whimpers and heady, heated moans from his own lips. Maxwell continued to plow forward, his thrusts becoming more erratic and the usually dignified man with his smug smile and his careful ways was all but undone. He renewed his efforts inside of the captive scientist, his strokes quick before Wilson could again feel that tension at his throat.

 

“Please master, stop!” he cried out, unable to restrain himself before the older man not only stole his breath but forced the scientist to tumble over the edge of orgasm into a world of conflicted bliss. His body loved this, adored every wretched thing that was happening to him if only because biology could not be thwarted. Enough stimulation would bring any man to orgasm and Wilson Higgsbury was no different.

 

Maxwell himself could feel his own release coming, but just because Wilson had an orgasm didn’t mean his torture was over. He continued with his own seeking of satisfaction whilst pumping the scientist’s shaft, his thumb rubbing circles against the overly-sensitive head. Wilson let out a cry of despair and agony as the sensation that had once been pleasurable was outright torturous. The younger man knew what was coming soon, could feel the swell of the other in his body and rock with the erratic rhythm the king was thrusting into. Maxwell was lost in the moment, staring down at the bruised scientist with something like adoration that left Wilson feeling more and more violated as the seconds ticked by.

 

The magician could have done this all day were his body capable. He could drink in the other man’s misery, his humiliation as his body betrayed him and left sticky spurts of cum on his abdomen. He could have dreamed a dozen ways to coax tears out of those pretty brown eyes and dozens more to on how to mark that pale skin. The image of him on his back pleading for his assault to end was the stuff of fantasies, and living it soon enough was sent Maxwell toppling into oblivion. He let out a long, ecstatic cry as spurt after spurt of hot cum poured into the helpless scientist’s body. Wilson could feel himself being filled, being _marked_. Maxwell panted, and pulled himself out of the trembling, whimpering younger man.

 

The king retrieved a handkerchief to clean himself off. Wilson received no such nicety.

 

“Why are you doing this?” the scientist asked, eyes searching the older man’s face. His cheeks were streaked by tears and his voice trembled.

“I **_hate_** when other people play with my things… you’ve always been mine, Higgsbury. Always.”

“I-is that what this is about? _Jealousy?!”_

“I’m not that petty… it’s just an added bonus,” the king smirked as he headed towards the exit, “oh, and be sure to clean yourself up, you’re a mess.”

 

And with that, he was gone. Wilson was left alone, save for the shadows around his arms to keep him company. Once released, the scientist curled tightly in on himself by the fire; he couldn’t bring himself to cry. His thoughts wandered; if he were to escape, for now it could only be in his mind.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as a point of humor (to hopefully bring some levity after having read what just happened), I had to look up when the zipper was invented and gained commercial success. The modern zipper made its debut in 1913, which means (drumroll please) Maxwell's pants would not have a zipper! And, neither would Wilson's were he wearing pants right now, since it didn't actually gain popularity in clothing until 1937. 
> 
> I'm thinking about switching perspectives for the next chapter to check in with the other survivors to see what we are doing and perhaps dealing with the idea that Wilson his gone. That way it can set the groundwork for the inevitable realization that they need to actually go rescue the hapless scientist. What are your thoughts?


End file.
